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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449239">Bites, Bites</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frick6101719/pseuds/Frick6101719'>Frick6101719</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, Clarke and Bellamy make the list, Episode: s04e03 The Four Horsemen, Extended Scene, F/M, Guys this is maybe my favourite Bellarke scene and I just wanted more, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Season/Series 04, it's mostly platonic but at the same time it SO isn't, other main characters mentioned - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:21:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,274</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frick6101719/pseuds/Frick6101719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The new hundred,” Bellamy observes from over her shoulder. She hadn’t realised he was standing right behind her. “Why is it always a hundred?”<br/>“The universe must have a taste for irony," she says, tapping the pen on the desk. She's getting very tired of the universe's antics of late. <br/>Bellamy rests one hand on the back of her chair, and he puts the other on the desk to peer over her at the list. He takes a deep breath. “So. Who’s first?”<br/>~~~<br/>An extension of what may be my favourite Bellarke scene of all: the two of them writing the list in 4x03</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake &amp; Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bites, Bites</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She keeps her promise to Raven.</p>
<p>It’s the least she can do.</p>
<p>There have been a hundred, a thousand promises she’s made in the past few months. Promises to keep her people safe, to protect her friends, to do everything she can to protect the entire human race. Promises to think of everyone’s needs. Promises to make the hard decisions. Promises to care. Promises to hold herself responsible.</p>
<p>A sigh is pulled from her chest almost by force as she enters the room, Bellamy a step behind her. It’s dark and quiet inside, and even though she’s been staying in the old Chancellor’s room for a few weeks now it still feels almost eerily unfamiliar. It’s strange to be on the Ark without the hum of the ship, the barely-discernable blow of the air being circulated through vents to keep them all breathing. It’s easy, in retrospect, to taste the staleness of that air, or to romanticise the silence that was never possible in space. But there had been nothing wrong with the air that sustained her from birth to nearly-eighteen, and the sound of a giant machine all around you was quiet enough that it really did seem like silence. It was good enough, when she didn’t know any different.</p>
<p>Clarke had only been inside the Chancellor’s private quarters a few times before, when she was visiting Wells and had to pull him away from a conversation with his father. They had seemed bigger then, the atmosphere weightier. It was like she could sense the countless decisions, with fathomless consequences, that were made between these walls.</p>
<p>Well, what’s a few more?</p>
<p>After all, this is one promise she <em>can</em> keep, no matter how little she wants to. No matter that promising Raven to make the list means promising to pass judgment on nearly four hundred others. She’s here now, and she has to do this.</p>
<p>Clarke sits down at the desk, pulling a large pad of paper from one of the drawers, and a pen from the little cup sitting in the corner. She finds a blank page, smoothing over it with her right hand to fix the crinkled top edge.</p>
<p>She can do this—it’s simple really: all she has to do is build a scale to measure the worth of human life, and then find the hundred weightiest people in Arkadia.</p>
<p>Easy. Right.</p>
<p>And it’s not as if she’s never done this before. The room may be oddly foreign, the situation may wear a new coat of paint, but the shape of human life resting in the palm of her hand, the bumps and ridges she can run her fingers over as she contemplates it, <em>they</em> are as familiar as the nose on her face.</p>
<p>It will be easier this time, though, because this time there’s no lever to pull, no button to push. Not today. Not until much later, after several other tasks like this one: today it’s the list, next it will be telling Arkadia about the list, then dealing with the inevitable aftermath. And then...</p>
<p>And then?</p>
<p>
  <em>How do you eat an elephant? </em>
</p>
<p>The ghost of Jake Griffin pokes her in the belly, and she can almost hear her own little-girl giggle, though she feels so far from laughter now.</p>
<p><em>Same as anything else:</em> <em>one bite at a time.</em></p>
<p>Clarke writes down the numbers one to one hundred in three neat columns.</p>
<p>“The new hundred,” Bellamy observes from over her shoulder. She hadn’t realised he was standing right behind her. “Why is it always a hundred?”</p>
<p>“The universe must have a taste for irony," she says, tapping the pen on the desk. She's getting very tired of the universe's antics of late. </p>
<p>Bellamy rests one hand on the back of her chair, and he puts the other on the desk to peer over her at the list. He takes a deep breath. “So. Who’s first?”</p>
<p>Clarke bites her lip. “I think… we need to think up some criteria first.”</p>
<p>“What kind of criteria?”</p>
<p><em>He’s going to make me say it? </em>“Of what the new hundred will need to survive. They’ll need people with certain skills: doctors, engineers, farmers.” It’s purely quantitative. Survival comes first. “Every name needs to be chosen to fill an essential role.”</p>
<p>Maybe the easiest place to start is with the obvious choices. Yes, of course, there <em>are</em> some people she already knows they can’t live without—starting with them will get the ball rolling.  </p>
<p>She writes down two names in the first two spots. <em>Abby Griffin. Eric Jackson.</em></p>
<p>Bellamy nods, still watching. “Right.”</p>
<p>A little weight lifts from Clarke’s chest. Doctors are a high priority, and thanks to her mother’s medical expertise her safety is ensured—</p>
<p><em>No</em>, no she can’t think of it like that. This is <em>not</em> about justifying saving the people she wants to save, this is about maximizing the space in the Ark, maximizing the spots on the page. <em>Every single one</em> must count.</p>
<p>Abby is a doctor—that was true even before Clarke was born and she became her mother—so she needs to be on this list. She and Jackson are as essential as it comes, now that there are only the two of them.</p>
<p>Abby being her mother <em>can’t</em> have anything to do with it.</p>
<p>“What about Jaha?” Bellamy asks, bringing her back to the task at hand.  </p>
<p>Clarke hesitates. After ALIE… she’s not confident in Thelonius’s judgment. What remains of the human race won’t survive another costly mishap like that, and Thelonius’s good intentions sure aren’t enough to prevent it.</p>
<p>On the other hand, even his bad choices have originated from an unwavering desire to do what’s best for his people. Didn’t he send Wells down with the hundred for that very reason? Didn’t he probably make that decision sitting in this very seat?</p>
<p>They’ll need someone who can make the hard choices. Someone who will do so carefully, with help. <em>It’s not easy being in charge.</em></p>
<p>“He knows these people,” Bellamy says, noticing her hesitation. “And he has practise leading them.”</p>
<p>Slowly, she writes Jaha’s name down. “They’ll need experienced engineers, too,” she adds.</p>
<p>He nods. “Two for the price of one.”</p>
<p>Clarke looks at the number 4, thinking hard. She sets down the pen. Who else is indispensable? “What about Raven?”</p>
<p>It’s Bellamy’s turn to hesitate. “Will she survive the five years?”</p>
<p>It’s a fair question, even if it stings to hear it spoken aloud. Raven’s health problems have been mounting in the past few months, and while she’s a fighter, there’s only so much she can do to control her deteriorating condition. There’s no telling what five years could bring. “Maybe she <em>is</em> a bit risky,” Clarke says, looking at the remaining ninety-seven vacancies. “But she’s a genius. Now that Sinclair is gone she’s our best hope for keeping the Ark running smoothly.”</p>
<p>“Put her down then,” Bellamy says simply. “Even if she’s on borrowed time, she’ll be able to do things with that time that no one else can.”</p>
<p><em>Raven Reyes</em> takes the fourth spot.</p>
<p>Despite her efforts, Clarke catches herself feeling relieved again to see the name of someone she loves on the list. It seems impossible not to feel it, not to feel like putting Raven on the list is a way to make up for all the ways she’s hurt her in the past. She was doing her best then, and she’s doing her best now, but it never seems to be enough. <em>This</em> doesn’t even feel like enough.</p>
<p>What’s worse: it seems impossible not to think of all the people she loves who <em>won’t </em>get a spot on the list. How many amends does she need to make that she’ll never get to?</p>
<p>She thinks of Jasper before she can stop herself.</p>
<p>
  <em>Come on, Clarke. On to five.</em>
</p>
<p>She tries to take a deep breath, but it’s not quite as steadying as she hoped it would be. Maybe she’s wrong to go about making the list this way; maybe the best approach is to go back to making a list of criteria and choosing the best person for each. That way she isn’t sorting through a pile of names, forced to divide them into “in” and “out,” “safe” and “dead.” It will be more like choosing an applicant for a job; who’s the most qualified? Who’s most likely to thrive in this role?</p>
<p>She suggests this approach to Bellamy, who agrees.</p>
<p>“Then we need to establish some guidelines.” She puts the lid on the pen, tapping it on the desk. She’s not stalling. She promised Raven.</p>
<p>Bellamy moves to the couch along one wall, dropping onto it like a bag of rocks. “Well, they’ll need food, water, and shelter, for starters. All of that will be taken care of by the Ark, once it’s fixed.”</p>
<p>True. “Only if we have farmers.”</p>
<p>He nods. “How many farmers will we need?”</p>
<p>Clarke looks down at the paper. Ninety-six vacancies. “Six or seven? Maybe more?”</p>
<p>She watches him chew the inside of his cheek. “With six or seven… each of them would have to feed about fifteen people.”</p>
<p>“So we probably need more.” She flips through the notebook, finding a piece of paper that’s mostly covered in old doodles but has a clean corner that will do the trick. “Do we need as many as ten?”</p>
<p>Bellamy shrugs. “More farmers can’t hurt.”</p>
<p>No, she supposes not. Still, right next to the <em>F</em>, she only puts a <em>9. Better to start small.</em> “Okay. What else is needed?”</p>
<p>They go through their list of jobs in this way. How many mechanics? How many Guard? How important is it to have someone there who knows how to cook? What about earth survival experts—is there any value in someone like that, when the earth could be unrecognizable in five years anyway?</p>
<p>They go back and forth, adjusting the quotas again and again. Clarke is determined to whittle them down to the bare essentials, to ensure they have room for everything they will need. Every critical role must be filled, with backups, and backup backups. To misstep could be to condemn them all.</p>
<p>Her exacting standards mean it takes them well over an hour to get the numbers where she likes them, with a mere six spots left over. Bellamy has covered probably every square inch of the floor with his boots at some point while they work; he’s restless and, judging by the rumbling sounds Clarke can hear from across the room, quite hungry.  </p>
<p>She hadn’t really noticed the roiling of her own empty stomach until then. It would be nice to eat, of course, but there’s a lot of work left to do, and she doesn’t want to put this off any longer. It needs to get done, and it’s <em>her job</em>.</p>
<p>So instead of giving in to her need for either sleep or food, she returns to the quotas. Now they know <em>what</em> they need, but how do they approach picking the best person for each spot?</p>
<p>“Alright,” she says, half thinking out loud. After all, she trusts Bellamy’s brain as much as her own with these kinds of decisions. “How do we maximise this space?”</p>
<p>Right now he’s leaning on the far wall. <em>At least he’s finally stopped pacing</em>. “By choosing people who fit more than one criterion,” he says easily. “Engineers from Farm Station, Guard who are also mechanics, that kind of thing.”</p>
<p>Clarke taps the pen against her bottom lip, staring at the page. “And we’ll want to find a balance between young people and people with plenty of experience. We’ll need experts, but we’ll need lots of young people to take care of the next generation and pass on their skills.”</p>
<p>The next generation.</p>
<p><em>Oh</em>. Right.</p>
<p>“We’ll also need to have a slight overrepresentation of women of childbearing age,” she adds, still looking down.</p>
<p>There’s a long pause, then Bellamy exhales loudly. “How—</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Clarke cuts him off, sounding sharper than she meant to. She knows what he’s asking, even without giving him the chance to say it out loud.</p>
<p>Having enough young women in the population is less than half the battle: how is she—or anybody—supposed to implement forced reproduction on them?</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she repeats, softer this time. “It might mean… some of the free spaces might have to go to spouses.”</p>
<p>She looks up, and Bellamy has a look on his face she’s been seeing a lot of recently, usually after a conversation with Octavia where he’s been trying to fix things and instead has had the proverbial door slammed in his face. It’s strange to have it pointed at her, instead of in his sister’s direction when he thinks no one is watching.</p>
<p>The silence stretches on for far too long, then finally he shrugs. “The human race has to survive. Reproduction is a part of that.” How little he likes his own words is betrayed by the insistent ticking of a muscle in his jaw.</p>
<p>Clarke rests her forehead against her fist, looking over at him. They’ve ended up here, somehow, yet again. “This is playing god,” she says simply.</p>
<p>He gives a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah, it is,” he says. There’s a short pause. “What I wouldn’t give for that bunker to have worked.”</p>
<p>
  <em>My thoughts exactly.</em>
</p>
<p>But there’s no use thinking about it now. Bellamy is right—the human race only survives if there’s a next generation. And one hundred of them… it’s such a fragile number. So many things could happen to a population that size that could be devastating to their chances of survival.</p>
<p>The two of them know this better than most. Their hundred were strong, relatively healthy young people, and their numbers were cut in half by the time Mount Weather found them. Which means that the new hundred need to be able to boost their numbers quickly, generationally speaking, just to give them a chance against whatever the post-apocalyptic world could throw at them.</p>
<p>Bellamy must be thinking along the same lines, because he says, a little bitterly, “I guess the one-child policy is out the window.”</p>
<p>“If anything, we’ll need a three-child-minimum policy.” She says it as a joke, but it doesn’t sound funny at all, not when the need to turn the new hundred’s young women into broodmares is very real, and staring them in the face.</p>
<p>Bellamy sighs, then stands. “I think we’re going to need food for this. And maybe something stronger.”</p>
<p>She tries for a half-smile. “I have a feeling Monty’s moonshine will only make this worse. You go eat; I’m going to stay here and keep working.”</p>
<p>“No, I’m going to bring the food back here,” he clarifies, already at the door. “Any special requests, Princess?”</p>
<p>The smile settles more comfortably on her face at the old nickname, which somehow no longer even resembles an insult. “I’d love a coffee, please. Thanks Bellamy.”</p>
<p>As soon as he’s out of sight, she adds <em>Octavia Blake </em>to the fifth spot. She began to realise Octavia needed to be on the list right before their conversation about reproductive concerns, but she didn’t want Bellamy thinking she was adding his sister for <em>that</em> reason; Octavia would be valuable no matter what demographic she represented. She’s a valuable warrior, and her time with the Grounders has given her a unique and precious knowledge of the earth and how humans survived the first apocalypse. They’ll need that knowledge.</p>
<p>She also doesn’t want him to think she put Octavia down for <em>his</em> sake. Because this isn’t <em>about</em> saving people to make amends, just like it isn’t about saving people because you love them.</p>
<p>Thinking of Raven once more, Clarke decides to head to Medical to get the tablet with everyone’s medical records on it. <em>I’ll have to know who’s healthiest too…</em></p>
<p>Neither Abby nor Jackson are in the wing when she arrives, and she makes a beeline for the “office” in the corner of the rooms (really just a desk and some sparse shelving).</p>
<p>As she pulls the tablet from the desk drawer, feeling its surprisingly small weight in her hand, she suddenly feels like her mother. The tablet contains the medical history of every person in Arkadia, and has helped Abby and Jackson save many lives with its insight. In fact, it almost never sees the inside of the desk unless, like now, the doctors aren’t around.</p>
<p>Clarke is no doctor—she doesn’t need these records to help her make a diagnosis; she’s a judge, and she needs them to help her reach a verdict.</p>
<p>Thankfully, she still is medical personnel of a sort, and has access to the sensitive information. After checking that she still remembers her password, Clarke tucks the tablet under her arm and jogs back to her room.</p>
<p>Bellamy is already there, not waiting for her, but hunched over on the sofa and digging into half of the provisions he brought. The other half are on her desk… so he must have seen the updated list. He doesn’t say anything about Octavia’s presence on it, but he does give her a look she can’t quite decipher when she thanks him for bringing her food.</p>
<p>She feels like she should give him another three thank-yous for the coffee, because<em>…</em> <em>coffee. </em>While she was away Arkadia managed to salvage the coffee bean plants from the Ark, for which she is eternally thankful. Coffee was one of the things she missed most about life in space, and now they have so much of it she can afford to drink more than a cup every other day. It feels decadent, but with so few reasons or opportunities to indulge these days, Clarke can’t find it in herself to resist.</p>
<p>The first sip is heavenly—made just the way she likes it with a bit of sugar, a bit of soy milk. <em>Something stronger,</em> Bellamy had said. This isn’t what he meant, but <em>ugh</em> was he right.</p>
<p>Out of the corner of her eye, she notices him make a face as he takes a drink from his own cup. “It still hasn’t grown on you?” Her words come out as nothing less than a demand. “Why do you drink it?”</p>
<p>“For the energy,” he says, the grimace deepening. “Wasn’t rich enough to get addicted to it on the Ark.”</p>
<p>Clarke rolls her eyes pointedly in his direction, and catches his cheeky grin in return. “You through?” she asks.</p>
<p>He quirks an eyebrow. “Nearly, Princess.”</p>
<p>Clarke smiles back at him, taking another drink and sighing deeply, feeling the drink warm her to the bone. The silence stretches on, but it’s comfortable, as if for a moment there’s nothing in the world but quiet, coffee, and the smile tugging at her cheeks as she watches Bellamy struggle his way through another swallow.</p>
<p>But it’s over all too soon when he puts his cup down, lifting his chin at the tablet in her hand. “What’s that for?”</p>
<p>She opens the ration packs he brought, setting them between the notebook and the tablet. “Medical records,” she says. “We’ll need them to choose between people who have otherwise very similar profiles.”</p>
<p>“Are you that worried about people dying young?”</p>
<p>“I’m more worried about the genetic consequences for a population so small,” she clarifies, picking up a particularly unappetizing piece of jerky. “Thanks to the one-child policy, our genes weren’t much of a concern on the Ark, but the new hundred could be wiped out a few generations from now if we don’t keep an eye out for potentially dangerous hereditary conditions.”</p>
<p>He frowns, thoughtful for a long moment. “Do you think they wanted the policy to ensure genetic variability?”</p>
<p>She’s… never thought about it that way. “I don’t know. <em>Maybe</em>. I think their main goal was what they always told us: to slow down the population growth and eventually shrink it back to something more manageable.” She thinks about it a little more. “Although it really wouldn’t surprise me if there were ulterior motives.”</p>
<p>It’s working in their favour now, at least. The last pair of siblings born on the Ark (well, <em>legally</em> born) was over sixty years ago, meaning that besides Bellamy and Octavia no two Arcadians under thirty even share a grandparent. Their population is probably as genetically fit as it can be this side of eugenics.</p>
<p>A cold shiver crawls along Clarke’s spine. She knows the stories better than most—her dad made sure of that—and even though the truth about ALIE has made her second-guess some of what she’s always believed about the end of the world, she doesn’t doubt that wars really were fought over genetic selection.</p>
<p><em>There is nothing new under the sun,</em> Jake always used to say, and Abby would roll her eyes, but with a little indulgent smile. Clarke would often do the same. They both used to think he could be a little dramatic, in that way dreamers are when they’re determined to fix the world.</p>
<p>Her dad was right, though.</p>
<p>Clarke returns her gaze to the screen as it lights up, and hundreds of files blink into existence. She taps around until she figures out how to filter the results. “Alright: nine farmers,” she says, and then quietly, so Bellamy barely hears her: “One bite at a time. How hard can it be?”</p>
<p>Very.</p>
<p>Very hard, it turns out.</p>
<p>The problem, Clarke realises, is that all of her waffling about how to eat this elephant was because she was trying to avoid thinking about the people she’s keeping <em>off</em> the list. She told herself that choosing the most qualified candidate, the person who represented the human race’s best chance for long-term survival, would be clean, efficient, and relatively painless. <em>Relatively.</em></p>
<p>But she <em>knows</em> these people. Each name among the dozens from farm station she recognizes. It gets worse when she gets to the Guard, or the engineers, who are more than just familiar names but familiar faces, familiar stories. And each time she selects a mere handful of them for the list, she’s forced to clear the tablet’s filter, watching all those faces disappear back among the masses, doomed.</p>
<p>She gets into a bit of a fight with Bellamy just before two in the morning. Monty hadn’t made it onto the list of farmers, and she’s just realised she can’t, in good conscience, put him on it as an engineer either. The fight doesn’t start because Bellamy disagrees with her decision—he doesn’t—it starts because he makes a throwaway comment about friendship being a non-essential role.</p>
<p>Deep down she knows he only says it because he’s tired, and he too is hurt by the fact that they can’t save their friend, but that doesn’t change that Clarke’s knee-jerk reaction is to snap back at him, demanding that if <em>he</em> thinks he could do better, well then—</p>
<p>She shoves the notebook out, waving it in his face angrily. Bellamy’s eyes flash for a moment, but when he pushes the papers back at her it’s with less force than she expected. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you, Clarke.”</p>
<p>Slowly, she pulls the notebook back to her chest, not meaning to hold onto it like a security blanket, but clutching it nonetheless. It keeps her shoulders from sagging with relief at avoiding a fight with him. That’s really the last thing she wants right now.  </p>
<p>It’s Clarke’s turn to try to alleviate the tension in the room. She gives her best attempt at a smile. “Not even for old time’s sake?”</p>
<p>He gives a short laugh, then a smile, shaking his head at her. “No, not even for old time’s sake. This is hard enough when we’re on the <em>same</em> side.” He rises from the couch with a quiet groan, a sound like her dad used to make getting up after an especially long soccer game. He picks the tablet up off the desk. “I can do the medical evals for a little while. Will I be shot for looking at this when I’m not a doctor?”</p>
<p>“Of course not. Floated? Maybe.”</p>
<p>It’s not all that different having Bellamy look up the records that decide if someone is safe or dead, but she’s glad for the help. She’s glad for the interference, really, for his willingness to make himself a buffer between her and the kill switch. <em>Again</em>.</p>
<p>They trade jobs again an hour later, when they’ve got a little over half the names figured out. Unfortunately, Bellamy keeps slipping further and further down on the couch, and being given a job that only requires his verbal input isn’t enough to keep him awake. He’s snoring softly after barely ten minutes.</p>
<p>Clarke doesn’t resent him for it. He could use the sleep; it’s been a <em>very</em> long day. And she could never resent how relaxed he looks, even crumpled over the arm of the couch like that. <em>His neck is going to be sore when he wakes up,</em> she thinks, then shakes herself, looking away. She’s got work to do.</p>
<p>She makes it to eighty-two and has filled all the essential positions when she realises she’s made a huge mistake: they’ve completely forgotten about all the children.</p>
<p>Upon realising this—that the entire list might need to be scrapped and <em>started fresh</em>—Clarke sits back in her chair and bites her knuckle to keep from screaming. <em>Children. Children Clarke, how could you forget about them?</em></p>
<p>She opens the tablet once more, filtering out everyone over seventeen. Eighteen-year-olds are adults… or they were on the Ark, at least. Now it seems hard to quantify something like the age of majority, after one hundred children were sent down to Earth and forced to grow up in days, if not hours.</p>
<p>But the line has to be somewhere, and it’s best to just--</p>
<p>Clarke stares at the screen, unblinking. She feels another scream rising in her throat, and has difficulty swallowing it down.</p>
<p>Of course, <em>of course:</em> forty-two of the hundred came out of Mount Weather. Some have died, and some, like her, have aged up and become adults, but not <em>that</em> many. There are still thirty-one “children” in Arkadia.</p>
<p>She looks over at Bellamy, tempted to wake him. What do they do? These children… most of them are <em>their</em> people. They’re the hundred. The <em>first</em> hundred, the children sent down for breathing room on the Ark, as test rats for the atmosphere—</p>
<p><em>Deep breath, Clarke,</em> she tells herself, trying to calm down. There’s no time to get angry, even less to get upset. She needs to figure this out.</p>
<p><em>They</em> need to figure this out.</p>
<p>She’s halfway from her chair before she’s even aware she’s moved, but one look at Bellamy stops her. Relaxed. Peaceful.</p>
<p>
  <em>I bear it so they don’t have to. </em>
</p>
<p>She sits back down.</p>
<p>
  <em>One bite at a time. </em>
</p>
<p>But it’s not one bite, not really. She can’t put thirty-one more people on the list. She has room for eighteen, and she can’t afford to reshuffle the list that she’s already taken such pains to get to where it is. They were so careful…</p>
<p><em>You can do this,</em> she tells herself, comparing the list with the thirty-one names on the tablet. She notices quickly that one—no, two—of the older teenagers are already on the list, leaving only twenty-nine kids and eighteen spots.</p>
<p>One bite at a time.</p>
<p>Clarke adjusts the filter, and suddenly there are only fourteen files on the tablet, looking up at her by name. Fourteen… if she keeps only the children younger than sixteen. Only if she condemns the majority of what remains of the first hundred.</p>
<p>She bites her knuckle again, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes. She writes down the fourteen names, barely breathing until the last one is there, in ink. It doesn’t feel like one bite. It feels like fifteen, all at once, impossible to swallow. Fifteen people—fifteen <em>children—</em>who don’t make it onto the list. Fifteen broken promises.</p>
<p>And four spaces left.</p>
<p>Clarke expects to feel angry at being forced to choose the last four of her people who will live, but she doesn’t. Her anger has trickled away, every last drop spent. Now she just feels… deflated. Defeated.</p>
<p>Exhausted.</p>
<p>The tears don’t stop, as she spends half an hour scrolling through the files, looking for files which stand out from the rest. She can’t afford to choose the remaining four arbitrarily—with four spots left, she has to make the most of them. <em>They have to count.</em></p>
<p>Tim Bartlett takes spot 97. Thirty-one-years-old, with a great medical history and parents who used to be doctors on the Ark. An ideal candidate. <em>Hopefully his parents taught him a thing or two. </em></p>
<p>Kim Ginsburg takes spot 98. Thirty-three, with a note in her file that she conceived twins for her first legal pregnancy. One of them was aborted, as usual. There’s a record of another abortion—an accidental pregnancy—three years later. A seamstress by trade, she’ll be useful enough to have in the new hundred, though Clarke is too tired to even <em>try</em> to kid herself that Kim makes it onto the list for that reason.</p>
<p>Clarke wonders about the two abortions. Do the Ginsburgs wish they could have kept those babies? In another world, would they have wanted a big family? Is she trying to give them that, or is she just seeing signs of exceptional fertility and capitalizing on it?</p>
<p>Bruce Ginsburg is already on the list. He’s an electrician. Clarke has never seen him without a smile on his face. He’s a wonderful man, who loves his wife very much.</p>
<p>She sighs. Maybe she <em>does</em> have the energy to fool herself. Maybe she needs to.</p>
<p>On to 99.</p>
<p>She reads every one of the three-hundred-sixty-four names on the tablet three times before finally setting it down quietly, turning the screen off. There are no more answers to be found there.</p>
<p>The fact that there are two spots left and two people in this room doesn’t escape her notice. Clarke tries not to think about it, but finds she can’t. It’s a question gone unspoken this entire time: does she put herself and Bellamy on the list? It feels despicable to do so, to condemn so many others, so many of her <em>friends,</em> all the while sneaking herself in. Is she going to be expected to close the door on all those people, locking herself into the warmth and safety of the Ark, giving herself a future at the expense of everyone else?</p>
<p>No. No she can’t.</p>
<p>She turns the pen around and around in her hand, until she drops it, her fingers trembling. <em>One bite, Clarke. Come on. Again. Again. </em></p>
<p>She tries desperately not to look over to her right, at the couch, or even to think about Bellamy. Now is not the time to remember the countless times he’s put his life on the line for the hundred, for <em>her</em>. She can’t afford to get distracted by things like his smile, and the way it never fails to lift the tension that lives between her shoulders. Not right now, she can’t, she needs to <em>think—</em></p>
<p>Clarke picks up the pen and focuses on it until her hand no longer shakes and she’s ready to write down the last two names. Whoever they are. That’s her job. <em>Deep breaths.</em></p>
<p>Her resolve doesn’t last long.</p>
<p>She’s glad to see Bellamy has shifted just enough to save his neck from a cramp... he must have woken at some point and made himself more comfortable, though she can’t remember him stirring. <em>Why did he stay?</em> He could have gone and found his own bed. He’s clearly exhausted.</p>
<p>If it were <em>her</em> sleeping on the couch, she knows that by now he would have scooped her up and carried her to the bed in the front corner of the room. He would have set her down gently, pulling the covers back because he knows that no matter the temperature, she needs a blanket. And she would have barely stirred through it all, would have woken only enough to catch his small smile through her blurry vision and maybe heard a whispered goodnight before she fell back asleep, unable to resist the comfort of a real mattress, pillows, and room to stretch out her legs.</p>
<p>But she can’t carry Bellamy. And this isn’t his room anyway.</p>
<p>The pen touches the paper, following her order before she’s even given it. Her hand isn’t shaking anymore, but steady as it’s ever been as she writes, in clear, neat letters, <em>Bellamy Blake</em> in spot 99.</p>
<p>He’s safe. Bellamy is safe.</p>
<p>
  <em>I thought this wasn’t about saving your loved ones?</em>
</p>
<p>That was hours ago, a distant memory. In this moment, the warmth settling in her chest with the knowledge that Bellamy is safe is so much more important.</p>
<p>And how many more of these moments will they get before she’s gone? He’s safe, but how long before she joins the three-hundred-sixty—</p>
<p>
  <em>No. Stop. You’re not done. You have one more name. One last bite. </em>
</p>
<p>But she’s <em>so tired</em>.</p>
<p>The number 100 stares up at her from the page, seeming large and unpalatable, ugly, aggressive, and then a little blurry as her eyes once more fill up with tears.</p>
<p><em>I can save one more life,</em> she thinks, leaning her cheek against her hand. <em>How am I supposed to save only one more?</em></p>
<p>She wipes away the tears that spill over, rubbing her forehead against the headache tenaciously rooting itself behind her eyes. It’s only when she hears the creaking of the couch and Bellamy quietly clearing his throat that she realises she’s woken him.</p>
<p>He walks over slowly, placing one fist on the desk. Even before he speaks, she knows what he’s going to say, and the look on his face leaves no room for argument.</p>
<p>“If I’m on that list, <em>you’re </em>on that list.”</p>
<p>It still breaks her, a sob ripping through her chest. “Bellamy, I can’t—</p>
<p>“Write it down,” he says. His tone is gentle, but it’s as much a command as anything he’s ever said. “Write it down, or I will.”</p>
<p>She can’t. God help her for refusing that look on his face, but <em>she can’t</em>. Not when there are hundreds of others who are going to die because of her, because she couldn’t put <em>their</em> names on this list. She can’t put her own down at their expense.</p>
<p>She shakes her head. She <em>won’t</em>.</p>
<p>She starts a little when he grabs the notebook and pen—it’s not that she didn’t believe him, or that him opposing her is new in any way, but the intensity of his movement takes her aback. Leaning over, with harsh, swift strokes, he scratches her name onto the final spot. <em>CLARKE GRIFFIN. </em>He keeps his eyes on her as he writes.</p>
<p>Part of her is upset, but it’s only a small part. She’s ashamed of herself, but it really <em>is</em> only a tiny part of her that wishes he’d listened, let her die with her people. Call it a human instinct for self-preservation, but it feels good to be safe.</p>
<p>It feels good to know that Bellamy didn’t hesitate to save her, even when she asked him not to.</p>
<p>He caps the pen forcefully, still watching her, then turns his attention to the list as he steps closer.</p>
<p>Clarke follows his lead, sure she’ll never be able to stop crying if she looks at him any longer. None of the names on the list make sense anymore. She’s not sure she can even read them.</p>
<p>“So what now?”</p>
<p>Forget it; it’s the list that’s going to make her cry. She looks up at Bellamy instead, feeling tears sting her eyes, but comforted knowing he’s in this with her. He <em>feels this</em> with her.</p>
<p>“Now we put it away and hope we never have to use it.”</p>
<p>She sniffs. She’s been telling herself for weeks that they would find another solution, some way to save everybody. But after today… “You still have hope?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t miss a beat, turning to look down at her with a slight curve to his lips. It’s too sad, too small to be a smile, but it reassures her all the same. “We still breathing?”</p>
<p>
  <em>Is that all it takes? </em>
</p>
<p>They are still breathing. Clarke looks down at the list again. <em>They</em> are still breathing. For how much longer?</p>
<p>She leans into his touch before his hand has even touched her shoulder, craving it, craving his reassurance, his support, like she craves the next breath that fills her lungs. She needs it. If she’s going to make it through all of this, she needs <em>him</em> by her side.</p>
<p>Clarke covers his hand with hers, curling her shoulder towards her ear as if bringing him closer will mean he’ll always stay there.  </p>
<p><em>We </em>are<em> still breathing. </em></p>
<p>“Get some sleep,” he says gently.</p>
<p>The spell, if that’s what it is (and she’s sure it is) is broken at his words. He’s right, they’re both exhausted.</p>
<p>Their job is finished. She kept her promise to Raven.</p>
<p>Clarke looks over at the bed in the corner as Bellamy lifts his hand from her shoulder. Her whole body feels empty in its absence.</p>
<p>The invitation of a mattress and pillows and room to stretch her legs beckons.</p>
<p>She can’t help but think she would trade every other comfort just to spend the night on the couch with Bellamy, his hand on her shoulder or maybe her head against his chest, close enough to feel that they’re still breathing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much for reading! These new episodes and the lack of Bellarke content are causing me so much emotional turmoil that the only thing I could think to do was go back and revisit the moments I wish we had more of.<br/>If you feel like leaving in the comments what your favourite Bellarke scenes are (especially if you think they're underrated) I would love to hear them! This was so much fun to write that I'm not sure it will be the last one-shot, and I'm always open to ideas about what to do next.<br/>Comments of other kinds are appreciated too, of course :)<br/>Much love</p></blockquote></div></div>
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